


For all the gold in the world

by Ellstra



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Historical, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, christopher columbus - Freeform, there's a lot of alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellstra/pseuds/Ellstra
Summary: The end of the 15th century needed a lot of pushing in the right direction. Aziraphale isn't quite sure if the direction he's pushing it is the right one. Crowley is mostly just there for the ride, and to be closer to his angel.





	For all the gold in the world

**Author's Note:**

> It's been ages since I wrote anything, and I don't even know where this came from. But for some reason, ever since i watched the show, there was the mental image of Aziraphale having had much to do with the Reconquista and Columbus's travels, and it wouldn't let me go. I read so many wikipedia pages for this, but I am no historian so bear with me if there are inconsistencies (I did try to avoid them. I read wikipedia in Spanish.)  
> I hope you'll enjoy this odd little baby of mine!

**_In a field outside Granada, January 2nd, 1492, at dawn_ **

Aziraphale watched the sky change colours from black to very dark violet. The stars twinkled as if trying their best to give as much light as possible in the last moments before the sun outshines them for the day. Wind tugged at Aziraphale’s clothes, annoying though not exactly cold. January is a cold month all over Europe but Aziraphale was glad not to be stationed in Sweden at this point in history. 

He overlooked the city of Granada. The sight evoked in him a vague sense of unease he couldn’t shake. The Reconquista would finally end today, king Boabdil of Granada would hand the keys to the city to Isabella of Castille and Ferdinand of Aragon in exchange for religious freedom for the muslims on the continent, and seven centuries of unrest on the peninsula would end. It had seemed simple and straightforward.

That was, until Crowley had turned up in summer.

Aziraphale was always glad to see Crowley, as glad as he allowed himself to be. They had spent a lovely afternoon of a particularly beautiful October day exploring the unique blend of Christian, Jewish and Arabic that couldn’t be found anywhere else but in Andalusia. It had taken a number of small miracles to keep trouble out of their way, because they were, after all, in the middle of a siege, but Aziraphale had been pulling so many strings to make history spin a certain way that he hadn’t worried too much about Heaven picking up on a certain hammam opening for a single day, or the mysterious one-time-only delivery of some rare foodstuffs the city hadn’t seen in years. They’d been watching the sun set behind the Alhambra – although it would be more truthful to say that Aziraphale watched Crowley watch the sun set  (and vice versa, but Aziraphale didn’t know that) – when Aziraphale had asked the damning question.

“What brings you to Granada anyway?”

“I’m here to make sure the war ends,” Crowley had replied, “really important business apparently. Hell was very adamant about it.”

“Hell wants you to end this war?” 

If Aziraphale were to describe what Hell did, ‘starting and maintaining wars’ would be one of his first responses. He didn’t know much about Hell, only what he had been told back after the War (which wasn’t much) and what he knew from Crowley, but he did know from experience that wars were messy and brought out the worst in people, which meant easy income of damned souls. Hell was usually very excited about wars.

“Yes, I was just as surprised as you are,” Crowley had shrugged in that odd way of his that made it seem like his entire body moved rather than just his shoulders, “and displeased. Ending wars is immeasurably more work than starting them.”

“I was sent here to end the war,” Aziraphale had mumbled absent-mindedly.

“Oh thank Satan, you’re here to help me,” Crowley had exhaled, “that’s a real relief, I had no idea how to go about this.”

Aziraphale had had no idea either. But more importantly he had had no idea why Heaven and Hell would issue the exact same order. It was worrisome, to say the least.

The treaty was signed on the 25th of November, and Crowley’s response to Aziraphale’s worry that maybe they were making a mistake were two  _ jarras _ of very sweet wine that gave them a headache so powerful they weren’t able to miracle it away. The city was given two months to surrender, thanks to Aziraphale’s addition of a few additional clauses to the treaty, yet the catholics had snuck their soldiers into the city, as if expecting the muslims not to honour the agreement.

Aziraphale could hear footsteps approaching him but he didn’t turn – he didn’t have to. He would know Crowley anywhere, his unmistakable aura of something exotic, smokey and alluring, the smell of a forbidden delicacy. Aziraphale wondered if humans saw Crowley in the same light he did, if that was how he pushed them where he wanted to have them. The thought displeased him, but he wasn’t sure why. 

“Came to watch the big moment?” Crowley asked when he stood beside Aziraphale. The sky was the colour of ripe plums now and the stars were disappearing one by one. Aziraphale stopped watching them.

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded.

“I am curious what the keys to the entire city look like. Must be quite big, don’t you think?” Crowley tilted his head to the side. 

“I think it’s a metaphor,” Aziraphale replied, “else it would be quite inconvenient to carry around.”

“I guess you’re right,” Crowley said, “a pity. It would be entertaining to watch good old Isabella carry a heap of keys. Are we sure that’s not what her enormous skirts were made for?”

“I’m quite sure those are to express her power and wealth.”

“Or to hide Ferdinand under them,” Crowley quipped. Aziraphale didn’t honour that with an answer. Crowley’s mind went into rather peculiar places sometimes.

“Will you join me for lunch when we’re done here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Always,” Crowley nodded. 

“Excellent! I found the coziest little restaurant where they make fish with a sauce that must have been touched by god.”

“Won’t that hurt me? You know, being holy and all.”

“No, no, no, it was just a figure of speech, it’s not really–”

Aziraphale’s reassurances were interrupted by Crowley’s chuckle.

“I know, angel, I’m just teasing you,” he said with a soft smile, “I know you’d never hurt me.”

“Well of course I wouldn’t,” Aziraphale puffed up a little, “I’m an angel.”

“Right,” Crowley said with a benevolent nod. 

Aziraphale wondered why it even needed to be said. Maybe because these were tumultuous times in which Heaven and Hell issued the same orders, and the world had become a rather confusing place. 

But at least Crowley was there, a familiar constant in the ever-changing world. His hair was shoulder-length these days, curling above his collarbones like a million little snakes watching in all sorts of directions. It was a style fashionable at the time, a rather unflattering one if you asked Aziraphale, but somehow Crowley made it look lively. Aziraphale thought long hair suited Crowley best, mostly because it gave him, Aziraphale, an opportunity to offer to braid it for him, but he also knew that sometimes, Crowley had to cut his hair when he had a bad day, and though he didn’t particularly understand, it seemed to help Crowley and that was what actually mattered. He didn’t know just when exactly Crowley’s wellbeing came to be that important to him, but he supposed it was a common side-effect of spending millennia in someone’s company. 

“Have you heard about the Colón fellow?” Crowley asked, tearing Aziraphale from his musings.

“Oh yes. He’s going to set sail to find a way to reach Asia by the sea,” Aziraphale replied.

“He’s insane,” Crowley pointed out, “it’s impossible on those ships of theirs. And he thinks Japan is two thousand four hundred nautical miles away. He’ll drown.”

“He won’t. I’m to make sure of it.”

“Isn’t that just a bit too much tinkering for one specific place and time?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently, big history is being made here. Colón has to land in America, even though he himself has no idea it exists. And for that, the catholics had to take Granada. Isabella wouldn’t give him the money he’s demanding if she still had something to conquest here on the peninsula,” Aziraphale explained, “she’s rather fond of finishing one task before starting another.”

“Ugh,” Crowley scoffed, “who even has the attention span for that?”

“The Queen who united the Pyrenean peninsula, I suppose,” Aziraphale replied.

“Good for her.”

“Mhhm.”

They watched the city wake up from slumber. Crowley didn’t have his dark glasses and his eyes were slightly wider in the dark. He seemed relaxed, like he wasn’t bothered by this whole situation like Aziraphale was himself – and really, why should he be? He was a demon, he didn’t have to care what happened to humans. If anything, he was there to make sure humans suffered, although, as Crowley often said himself, the humans did a lot of his work for him. It was a technicality, but Heaven and Hell were very keen on technicalities. Strict rules kept the world spinning in the right direction et cetera. Aziraphale had learned that long before the great war, before Lucifer and all the others fell.

Crowley was a demon, but he was an angel once and, more importantly, he was Aziraphale’s friend – at least Aziraphale hoped he could call him a friend. Crowley cared about Earth as much as he did, even if in a different way and for different reasons. He couldn’t be entirely indifferent about what would happen to it. 

“What’s troubling you, angel?” Crowley asked all of a sudden. 

“I have a peculiar feeling about what we’re doing here,” Aziraphale admitted, “the sort of feeling I had when we first met in the garden. Like I’m doing something wrong, even though it seems like the right thing to do.”

Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale, like he had done then, and frowned. 

“You said it yourself – it had to be done. For Isabella to give Colón the ships for his trip of self-discovery and all that,” he said, in the same tone he had said ‘I don’t think you could do anything wrong.’ It wouldn’t suffice this time, Aziraphale thought. The world was more complicated than that these days.

“Yes, but why?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley shrugged, “but if I can give you some advice, I’d say don’t think too much about it. It’s obviously an important thing that needs to happen, and the two of us can hardly do anything about it. It’s not worth the trouble of asking why.”

It seemed like there was another layer to Crowley’s words but Aziraphale didn’t uncover it more. They hadn’t breached the topic of Crowley’s fall many times, and when they did, it was painful and terrifying for both of them and led to them avoiding each other for the better part of a century. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d like to be away from Crowley for that long ever again. 

“I just  _ can’t _ make the worry go away,” he sighed instead, letting Crowley know, without words, that he understood. 

“I know, angel,” Crowley said, and it seemed to Aziraphale that he leaned just a little bit towards him. For a moment, he considered spreading his wing over Crowley again, not to shield him from the rain but to pull him close and feel just a little less lonely in the whole vast world he didn’t fully understand and feared to question. “I know.” 

**_In a port of the island of La Gomera in the Canarias, September 5th, 1492_ **

The water of the port was full of fish waiting eagerly for anything edible to fall off the ships and piers into the green-gray depth. It couldn’t be the freshest water but it seemed like humans weren’t the only creatures who decided to make do with less than ideal because obtaining the best required effort, and were, instead, merely a step or two ahead of the other animals.

Crowley threw the piece of bread he had been holding into the water, entire, and rushed after the sight of white-gold curls on the other side of the port. He had hoped to catch sight of Aziraphale before Colón’s fleet would depart on their voyage to the great unknown, but he hadn’t had the luck just yet. After some pushing through crowds, he found Aziraphale in a small bar, chatting cheerfully to a tanned man in a dirty apron. Crowley thought he was the owner of the bar as he had seen him around it a few times but he had never bothered to actually check. Crowley had been feeling lonely so he’d spent the past few days with the sailors, seeing as they tended to attract all the alcohol in the five-mile radius, and while the loneliness didn’t seem to go away when he drank, all the alcohol diluted it enough that he forgot about it for a few hours at least. 

Aziraphale seemed to be quite content talking to the man. Crowley hissed with dismay. The bar owner frowned and excused himself, retreating to the back of the bar. Aziraphale looked puzzled, and Crowley felt guilty satisfaction, the kind one feels when they watch someone they don’t like trip and fall head-first into a pile of dung.  (That sort of thing happened more often than it was statistically bound to do. Especially to people Crowley didn’t like.)

Crowley sauntered towards Aziraphale while trying to appear like he had a Purpose and a 

Destination that had nothing to do with Aziraphale. He still had that much dignity left. 

“Crowley!” a familiar voice called, and Crowley’s heart started racing. It was incredible just how human his responses were sometimes. As if he needed the fight or flight instincts, or the stupid gut-clenching and aching and other unpleasantries associated with being in love. Not that he was in love. Love was an angel-y thing, and he wasn’t an angel anymore. It was the side-effect of spending time with an angel, Crowley reckoned. Would have happened around anyone of that ilk.

Crowley lifted his head and turned it, trying very hard to make his expression seem puzzled, keeping up the pretense. He couldn’t resist a little smile when his eyes met Aziraphale’s, and was greeted by a kind one in return. It took one look at the angel and all the clouds in Crowley’s mind dispersed.  (They always did. Crowley tried very hard to convince himself he didn’t need Aziraphale to feel joy, but he did make everything seem brighter.)

“Hello, angel,” he waved and walked over to the bar, “how’s Canarian cuisine?”

“Splendid! Juan here makes the best  _ mojo  _ to go with the  _ papas arrugadas _ , you’ve got to try them. I’ll miss them dearly on the ship,” Aziraphale replied, his expression changing so many times throughout the statement Crowley nearly got whiplash. He sat down on the other chair, his sluggish posture a stark contrast to Aziraphale’s proper one. One day, he’ll manage to spread his legs wide enough to brush his knee against Aziraphale’s under the table.  (Some time in the distant future, Crowley will take credit for inventing man-spreading.)

“You’re going on the ship with them?” Crowley asked at last.

“Apparently I have to,” Aziraphale said, his shoulders drooping a little. 

“That seems excessive,” Crowley pointed out, “I mean, what are you going to do there? Steer the helm towards America? Seems like that should be their job.”

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley had only seen him this unhappy a few times, like when the Library of Alexandria burned down or when the Vandals sacked Rome and brought about the end of the Empire and – more importantly – that restaurant with the oysters. 

“What do you think are the odds of them reaching America?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t know, I skipped school when we talked about seafaring. Never been much of a fan of boats, myself.”

“It’s impossible. It will take miracles – big ones, the sort you have to fill paperwork for, the one with the blue stripe that comes in three copies. I have to be on the ship to know what to do to keep them alive,” Aziraphale explained. Crowley didn’t know much about Heaven paperwork, but he did know that three copies meant big trouble. The only form that came in three copies in Hell was for straight up opening a gate to Hell in case there was a shortage of sinners to use as properliant under Hell’s cauldrons. Obviously, it had never had to be used.

“Maybe they should build better boats then,” Crowley suggested.

“They are, it’s the entire point for the stop here in the Canarias, but it’s not just the ships – it’s the navigation system, the maps, everything. Many of them still believe the Earth is flat and that they’ll fall off the edge of it if they sail any farther westwards than Cape Verde. It might take centuries before they’re ready for the journey.”

“Seems to me like Heaven misplaced one of the virtues,” Crowley said.

“It does make me feel rather iffy,” Aziraphale nodded. 

“I’ll go with you,” Crowley announced, “with that much work to do, you’ll need some help.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale all but purred. He had a way of saying Crowley’s name that touched Crowley’s very soul, or what was left of it anyway. There was so much meaning in just the one word, gratitude and a ‘you don’t have to do this’ that Aziraphale couldn’t force between his lips. 

“I want to,” Crowley said, “it will be fun. So many humans crammed up in such a small place? It will be a feast.”

Crowley didn’t have any opinions on seafaring,  (As he had mentioned earlier, he missed the class, or rather, didn’t so much miss it as deliberately flunked it. It was the only class he’d ever missed, because Hell punished playing truant surprisingly sternly for an organisation generally very keen on disobedience.) and supposed this was as good an opportunity to form his opinion as ever. He supposed there would be enough discord and misery for him to justify his being on the ship, if anyone bothered to ask, which he was quite certain would not happen. Besides Aziraphale looked so hopeful now; it felt intoxicating to be the cause of a positive emotion for once. It shouldn’t have been, but Crowley had a theory that demons were forbidden to experience and feel pleasant things because they were much more rewarding than evil, and who would be left in Hell to do the hard work then?

As if on cue  (There was a cue. Something had been whispering into Juan’s ear that it wasn’t quite the right time to go back to the customers just yet up until a few seconds ago.) , the bar owner emerged from the kitchen with a plate stacked with so much food that Crowley wasn’t certain even Aziraphale could eat all of it, and a bottle. 

“Hola, ¿qué tal?” he asked Crowley with a broad smile, his eyes flickering between the two of them. Without waiting for an answer, he went on to ask Crowley what he would like to order, and then filled the silence with a remark on how hot the day had been. There was hardly any other nation on the face of the Earth as chatty as the Spanish. That was probably why they talked so quickly. A room full of Spanish people resembled Hell in many ways, particularly the noise, chaos and how there hardly ever seemed to be any free space, but the general atmosphere couldn’t be any more different. 

Crowley asked for another glass and nothing else, which the man seemed to take as a personal affront against himself and his establishment. Aziraphale appeared distressed by it but Crowley couldn’t be bothered to care. He did eat alongside Aziraphale sometimes, but that was when the food was really beautiful, weird or dangerous  (he had felt obligated to try fugu fish, prepared the right way and then, after some devilish interference because he was just too curious to see what would happen, the wrong way, and found the latter to be just a tiny bit tastier than the former.) , and the  _ papas arrugadas _ , small wrinkly potatoes covered in two heart attacks worth of salt, seemed like neither, since he wasn’t in a risk of a heart attack. 

“When do we heave up the anchor then?” Crowley asked, watching Aziraphale push a potato through a pool of vibrant green sauce. 

“In the morning. I suppose we’ll hear the sailors being summoned back to the ship anyhow. They make dreadful amount of noise when they’re drunk,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley smiled, sipping on his wine, imagining Aziraphale as a drunken sailor – they were to become them, weren’t they? 

“We should get wasted like sailors,” Crowley announced, “before I lose my resolution.”

“I know just the thing,” Aziraphale said with what Crowley could only describe as gleeful smirk, “I’ve been experimenting a little while I’ve been here.”

“Without me?” Crowley gasped. It hurt him more than he’d care to admit.

“Well you’ve been up to something important, I’m sure, all the tempting and such,” Aziraphale tried to shrug it off, “I’ll show you what I discovered.”

Crowley supposed that what was done was done, but he still felt betrayed. 

Aziraphale had Juan,  _ dear,  _ bring him a lemon, an orange, a knife and ‘the fruit’. Juan nodded and went off, obviously amused by Aziraphale’s antics. There was a lot of familiarity between the two of them, suggesting this wasn’t the first, second or even the third time Aziraphale had visited the bar. Crowley tried not to feel jealous about this human getting to see Aziraphale invent a new alcoholic drink, because jealousy was an ugly human emotion, which completely ruined your overall style, and failed rather spectacularly at it. 

Juan brought everything Aziraphale had asked for, and a jar. ‘The fruit’ turned out to be some of the tiny bananas that were quickly becoming native to the islands, strawberries and some melon of a rather unappealing appearance, which had apparently been soaking up wine like a Catholic priest for the past couple of hours. Aziraphale dropped the fruit into the jar and set to squeeze the juice from the lemon. Crowley watched him work, admiring the efficiency of his movements. Finally, Aziraphale grabbed the bottle of wine and turned it over into the jar. The liquid sloshed against the walls of the jar, glistening in the evening sun like bohemian garnets, (or venous blood, if that simile is more up your alley) and settled over the fruit which rose rather lazily to float in it, as if it were drunk and couldn’t be bothered to move. 

“Ah, I forgot something with which to stir it,” Aziraphale sighed, sounding very disappointed with himself. Crowley rolled his eyes, raised his finger over the jar and moved it in circles, the liquid following suit. The gesture was unnecessary, of course, but he used it anyway for Aziraphale’s benefit, as a way of saying: ‘You’re an angel, silly, you can make anything happen.’

“Thank you,” Aziraphale beamed, as if Crowley did something he couldn’t do himself. “Now try this.”

Aziraphale poured a glass to each of them. They toasted – Aziraphale loved to toast, to anything – and took a sip. 

“You’re onto something here,” Crowley nodded when Aziraphale watched him intently, obviously expecting a reaction, “but may I have a small suggestion?”

“Of course!”

“It needs something stronger, and then it will be perfect.”

“Oh, I knew there was something missing, you’re a genius!” Aziraphale beamed. 

_ Take that, human, I’m a genius,  _ Crowley thought and grinned. 

Juan didn’t have any brandy, as it had only recently been invented and hadn’t yet spread all the way to a small bar on La Gomera, so they miracled some. Crowley poured about half of the bottle into the concoction, because there wasn’t more space left in the jar, made it stir and poured them the alternated version. Aziraphale sipped pensively at it and his face lit up.

“This is perfect!” he exclaimed, and drank some more as if to make sure. Crowley tried it too and it was, indeed, perfect. He grinned.

“Let’s get wasted, angel.”

**_The next day, on Santa María_ **

Aziraphale was very grateful for his angelic powers. He and Crowley had drunk way too much of their new invention the night before, and he was certain it wouldn’t do well with their intended ship voyage if they hadn’t been able to miracle themselves sober. They had invited Juan to try it too, but some things were just not made for humans. They didn’t really have to clear up his memory to make him forget the whole night, which was probably a good thing, as neither of them was quite up to it. Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley since they boarded  _ Santa María,  _ but he had heard the sailors talk about seeing a snake on the deck. He just hoped Crowley wouldn’t get himself discorporated by superstitious sailors, that would make the voyage quite unpleasant, on top of all the work he would have to do here. 

“Those clouds don’t look good, eh?” someone asked just beside Aziraphale. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Crowley, but he did anyway.

“Oh, good afternoon, Crowley,” he said with a smile. Crowley didn’t look like he was having a good afternoon. 

“Not really,” Crowley muttered, “I’m starting to think there was a reason why I never tried to sail the seas.”

“Are you feeling unwell?” Aziraphale asked with concern. Crowley glared at him, and for a while Aziraphale was quite sure he would snap. Then he just sighed.

“Aren’t you?”

“No, I suppose my body is better equipped for seatravel than yours. Is there anything I can do for you?” Aziraphale laid his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, wishing his friend would feel better. 

“Keep the skies clear and the sea flat,” Crowley said, looking a little bit better now, “and for Hell’s sake, don’t let these idiots get lost.”

When Aziraphale looked up to the sky again, it seemed like the clouds gathering over the horizon were dispersing, leaving a clear path in their midst. The helm moved just slightly under the helmsman’s hands, but when he checked it with the map, they were headed in the right direction, towards the sun, so he just shook his head, blaming it on the alcohol from the night before. The helm on  _ Pinta _ didn’t move, because it had been off course before. The one on  _ Niña  _ moved while the helmsman was preoccupied with watching a member of the crew work the ropes without his shirt on, and therefore went unnoticed. 

**_In the Atlantic Ocean, October 12th, 1492_ **

“¡Tierra a la vista!” 

Crowley was dozing off when the cry came. He opened his eyes, which wasn’t pleasant at all, and summoned all his strength to get out of bed. He had promised to help Aziraphale, which he did a little, and expected to add onto the discord in the ship, but he ended up sleeping most of the time. Whatever kind of snake he was, it was a terrestrial one and it took a lot of his powers not to throw his stomach right up. The sailors no doubt found it hilarious to see the nobleman in such a state, but Crowley couldn’t care less about them. It did bother him that Aziraphale saw him in such a compromising state though. 

“Fucking finally,” Crowley muttered and miracled himself some usable clothes before leaving his cabin. 

There was much commotion on the deck when he entered it, people running up and down it like foxes with rabies, as if they would suddenly be able to clearly see what might just as easily be a figment of imagination of a desperate sailor wanting to be the first to see the promised coast of India or, at this point, any land at all. Crowley found Aziraphale in conversation with Colón at the front of the ship, a very elegant monocular in his hands. It matched his clothes and glimmered slightly even if the sun hadn’t risen properly yet, the vain thing. 

Crowley waited until something else caught Colón’s attention before making his way to the angel.

“Is it really land or are they collectively hallucinating again?” he asked without preamble.

“It is. If I am correct, it should be the island Guanahaní,” Azirapahale replied, “we should reach it soon.”

“Oh good, I can’t wait to leave this torturing thing,” Crowley muttered, tapping the deck with his foot, “I don’t want to see the sea for a hundred years at least.”

“I don’t think we’ll be stopping on this island for long,” Aziraphale pointed out, “Colón wants his India.”

“He can bloody well look for it without me,” Crowley said, “and without you. I’m sure they’re manage now.”

“I’ll stay,” Aziraphale replied, “I’m curious how they’ll manage here.”

“As you wish,” Crowley said, “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

“I suppose we will,” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley allowed himself to hope that there was joy in those words. 

**_The ruins of Tenochtitlán, August 14th, 1521_ **

There were small fires burning all over the city, and even from the very top of the Temple, Aziraphale could hear the screams of pain echoing through it. The water of the lake was discoloured with blood, covered in corpses floating all over it, mixed with the occasional boat holding an Aztec trying to escape a gruesome, unnecessary death. Aziraphale had seen many horrible things during his stay on Earth but nothing quite like this. Nothing that hurt him so personally. Nothing he felt so terribly responsible for.

He sensed Crowley approaching him a little before he heard his steps. He turned around, barely holding back from running to Crowley for comfort. The demon looked at him with the same disbelief in his yellow eyes, tiptoeing across the floor covered in blood and other bodily fluids as was bound to happen in a place where many people died at the same time, as if it was too much to handle even for him. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, the word almost a plea, as if asking the demon to fix  _ this.  _

“Angel,” Crowley replied, finally bridging the distance between them.

They stood side by side, like they did back in the beginning on the wall around Eden, watching humans deal with the aftermath of their actions. Back then, Aziraphale had been unsure whether he had done a good thing when he gave his sword to Adam. Now, he was certain the carnage spreading all around them was somehow partly his fault. 

“They did this,” Crowley said, his voice unusually stern. Aziraphale was used to hearing it spoken in his presence, but not to be addressed by it. He looked around instinctively but they were alone. “It’s not your fault. The bloody humans did this to themselves. Don’t be miserable over it. The Earth is better off without them.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

“It’s true,” Crowley hissed, his eyes all yellow and glowing. Aziraphale almost expected to see fire in them too. Something had obviously upset Crowley to a degree Aziraphale had seen few times before. “Damn them, and damn your stupid bosses for dragging you into this.”

“You can’t say things like that!” Aziraphale said. 

“Why? What are they going to do to me? They have no power over me, not anymore,” Crowley went on in that same tone. Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to say to that because he could think of a hundred things Heaven could do to Crowley, and he knew that so did Crowley, so he didn’t say anything, hoping Crowley would calm down. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling cold despite the sticky, suffocating heat. 

Crowley looked at him after a while, his expression changing. 

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said, “I was just… shocked. I had always thought the actual Apocalypse would look like this. It scares me to think what  _ that  _ will be like.”

“I know,” Aziraphale sighed. He yearned to touch Crowley, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

“You’re shaking,” Crowley pointed out, “are you sick?”

“I do not know,” Aziraphale replied, “I feel very weary. I’ve brought these people here, I helped them do the impossible, I cleared skies for them and averted storms, I steered their ships to save them from certain death. And look at all this bloodshed. I should have predicted it, I should have stopped it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Crowley said with the same vehemence as before, “it’s theirs, they’re the bloodthirsty, greedy killers, not you. You’re pure, you’re good, you’re loving. You would never let this happen if you had any means of stopping it.”

“But I saw Cortés march through the land and I didn’t stop him. I still believed this wouldn’t happen. This was supposed to be a good thing. Why else would I get such strict instructions to lead the Spaniards here?” Aziraphale was close to tears. He had been questioning this mission for years, never once losing his faith, but it was wavering forcefully now. All the death, suffering, and for what? 

“I don’t know, angel,” Crowley whispered and laid his hand on Aziraphale’s arm. Aziraphale leaned into the touch, turned just an inch towards Crowley, who opened his arms in response. Aziraphale eased himself into the offered embrace, hesitant but too beaten down and lonely to deny himself the only thing promising to keep him sane. Crowley hugged him, softly at first, giving him the chance to escape, but tighter when Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent. There was nothing in the whole world that smelled quite like Crowley. There were bits of the scent spread all over but he had never encountered the correct combination. It felt soothing now, familiar and warm, a constant he could rely on in the world he didn’t understand anymore. 

Aziraphale wondered if he should say something. He felt like he should, but at the same time he had no idea what it should be. From the way he could hear Crowley’s lips open and close, Crowley apparently thought the same thing. Aziraphale realised Crowley had to be just as shaken by the carnage as he was if he lost his usual eloquence. It made Aziraphale wonder what else humanity had in store for them. It seemed like the more human civilization advanced, the worse atrocities it allowed to happen, and technology was only going forward. 

Slowly, Aziraphale’s breathing evened and matched Crowley’s, and his hands stopped trembling. He was far from recovered but the humming in his ears disappeared and he didn’t feel like he’d been sailing the sea for weeks anymore. He pulled away slowly.

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Anytime,” Crowley replied, and it sounded like a promise. Aziraphale waited for him to pull away, unwilling to be the one to end the hug and make them face the horrors again.

“Let’s go someplace nice,” Crowley said after a while, “I don’t think you’re any use here. You’ve been in this horrible place way too long. You deserve a holiday.”

“I don’t think angels get holidays,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Well, humans do. And you know what they say, when on Earth, do as humans do.”

“I think the saying goes a little differently,” Aziraphale pointed out, “but I can’t argue with your logic.”

“That’s good,” Crowley said as their surroundings began to change, “it saves us a lot of time and energy.”

Aziraphale wasn’t very fond of this form of transport because it tended to make him dizzy, but if the option was staying even a minute longer in the hell that was Tenochtitlán on its deathbed, he was happy to follow Crowley on a path paved by a demonic miracle. He held on to Crowley for a little bit longer, for comfort more than for stability, as he looked around. The place was familiar, but there was a new clock tower shining bright in the setting sun. Aziraphale hadn’t seen that one before, or even heard that it had been being built. And yet he would recognize the aura of the place anywhere.

“Venice,” he sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in. 

“I figured you’d like to visit somewhere fancy,” Crowley said, moving ever so gently not to pull away from Aziraphale and yet to still appear natural and not like a pair of supernatural entities who had been shaken to their cores by the cruelty of mankind. 

“Do you think Geronimo’s is still in business?” Aziraphale asked, “I have a rather incredible craving for his spaghetti.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Crowley said, turned a little to the left and pointed to a broad street glowing in the setting sun, “lead the way.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I use the Spanish form of Columbus's name, because they're in Spain at this point.  
> I use America here even before Columbus discovers it, because the show says "native Americans" and I couldn't think of a better term.  
> Papas arrugadas (wrinkly potatoes) are a very popular dish of the Canary islands. They're tiny potatoes boiled in salt water, until it all evaporates.  
> The "form with blue stripe, in three copies" thing is a nod to how we prescribe opioids where I live. (I am a weird medstudent, don't mind me.)  
> Crowley and Aziraphale invent sangría in this fic, but they make it too strong for humans. It will be discovered some centuries later, by accident, when they'll be observed but the humans won't have enough brandy to use in it. Thanks so much to [Fru Hallbera](https://twitter.com/FHallbera), [Ms Modernity](https://twitter.com/MsModernity) and [fandomfix](https://twitter.com/fandomfix8) for a fruitful discussion on this topic.  
> There's a fascinating bit of info about how Crowley's eyes work by Neil himself [here](https://ellstra.tumblr.com/post/186259930282/hi-i-was-wondering-if-you-have-any-idea-why), I'm using this headcanon in this fic.  
> Crowley had recently reported back to Hell about having invented the Spanish Inquisition, which is why he was able to miracle them half a world away at the end. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, leave me a comment and tell me how you liked this, please?  
> Find me on [tumblr](https://ellstra.tumblr.com/) and [twitter.](https://twitter.com/EllstraH)


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